Black & White
by maliciousmarquee
Summary: Sanae Hanekoma, The Reaper's Game's Producer reflects upon what he's done as he attempts to paint a portrait. Major Spoilers for the game "The World Ends With You" & slight slashy tendencies


Black and white

**Black and white**

Such plain colors, dull and lifeless, lacking the luster and grace that the more beautiful rainbow of colors seemed to bring out. Color expressed emotion and feeling, whereas black and white were empty.

Empty like he himself was.

There was a feeling in him that even he could not touch upon and place. There was a black hole in him that sucked all feeling in, and Hanekoma himself dared not to go after it. It would do little more good for him then a dog chasing its tail; he would never get anywhere.

Yes he didn't know what caused this utter hopelessness because he had all but gotten used to it by now.

Hanekoma put the brush in his hand to the blank canvas and closed his eyes, trying to make a picture come, trying to no avail. With a groan of frustration he opened his eyes and looked at the pallet clutched his hand. The pallet had the only two colors that he chose to paint with in these 'dark days.'

Black and white.

They were the only two colors that he felt worthy to use; they represented how bleak everything felt inside. Lacking life, and lacking the will to even reach out to the world in search of happiness. He had already lost so much, why trust to hope again?

He had been standing there in contemplation for hours, but no image would come, he couldn't seem to put those bottled up emotions out on canvas, they wouldn't release themselves to him. It was a futile and exhausting effort, and his resolve was close to cracking. Like words on the tip of ones tongue that never came, that was how his body and mind raged. Something lay beneath, wanting to be expressed, but unable to surface.

_Maybe they're staying inside where they belong_, he reasoned even though deep down in him he knew that that was not true. They didn't come because he was afraid of them.

And how would it feel when 2000 years of pent up anger and frustration and sadness came out at once? That was what he was afraid of. It would destroy him, surely, and he knew madness awaited if he sought them out. But madness was already descending on him, he couldn't go on like this.

He had already lost so much, how much more damage could the loss of his sanity do? If anything, it could bring with it peace.

It had been years since the last of his friends had left him; they had all been with him once, in better, happier times.

_And you let them go, damn you_, he cursed himself.

He needed color! He needed to settle his anger and sadness or no color would ever come to him.

_Close your eyes, Hanekoma_, he willed himself, setting down the brush. He needed silence and concentration. This was going to be a hard endeavor, and as taxing mentally as it would be physically. He was going to brave the black hole in him and dig for those forgotten feelings, resurface them and hope to bring some sort of closure.

If he were to truly move forward that is what he needed. Color had to be added once again.

Taking a deep breath, he shut off all senses until he became nothing but a mere thought, light and dreamlike. He was no longer himself, he was _in_ himself.

_Go deeper_...

The first composer, so beautiful and harmless looking. His first love. He was so precious and tender that he ached inside for him. He reached his hands out and could almost touch the thick layers of his lush hair, bathing him in such softness and luster that the mere idea of grief seemed foreign. But like most moments that was all he was afforded, and the vision slipped through his fingers like water or sand, impossible to grip.

Did he even know that when he looked at him he didn't see the stoic Composer, but rather the fearless mortal boy that had spoken such brash bold words to him? He had hurt this one the most and tried to selfishly pass the blame off on him.

But young man was gone now and Sanae was so sorry…

Had he done this to him?

_Oh gods no_, he screamed, his mind recoiling with the horror of such a thought...and there was still no color.

_Go deeper_...

Joshua, his angel forever with the purple eyes that seemed to draw him out of his body. A voice that caressed his very senses like the finest silk. Lips like the softest inner petals of a pink rose wet with the dew of an early fall morning.

His greatest guilt came from this one, the young boy that he had so foolishly fallen in love with. But this young man was as beautiful on the outside as he was on the inside, and he burned with hungry desire.

Why had he allowed this one to be taken from him so easily? Why did he never gain the courage to take back what was so willingly his? And what had the boy's ascent to the seat of Composer done for their love?

Was there even any love anymore?

This one had been made too young, and Hanekoma was sure that some of what he saw in his eyes was hostility, hostility for giving him a life that was never really wanted in the beginning.

Their tones were polite when they spoke to each other now, as if they were little more than associates. How it hurt him to keep that civil tone when all he wanted was to fall to his knees and scream that he loved him still. There was a barrier of ice between them that was infinite, it could never be torn down or broken, and that hurt Hanekoma.

_Joshua, please forgive me_, Hanekoma screamed to himself...still no color.

_Go deeper_...

Neku, Beat, Rhyme & Shiki did he love them? Yes. Did he care for them? Yes. Did he love them as Joshua did? No.

More simply put, he had never known them as Joshua had, and had made them safe purely for his love for Joshua.

He had felt that it was the right thing to do.

Joshua had committed the same sin that he was guilty of so long ago; of exposing innocent mortals to the powers of the higher plane. They had seen his powers. No mortal should ever see what they were truly capable of. Hanekoma knew that Joshua had known better, never having a mortal companion that he had to watch die and Joshua had no real idea of what mortality and death really meant. Despite his murderous act, Joshua was still innocent and naive in so many ways.

So their destiny had been sealed by Joshua. It was either make them, or have them go mad from all they had seen. Hanekoma was not stupid, he knew that because Joshua had no experience in mortal death.

Composers always grew to loathe their Producers, some more than others. After the restriction given by the higher plane for Joshua never to meet with his friends, Hanekoma wasn't sure if Joshua could handle losing another thing he loved. He was so fragile that Hanekoma worried about him. He could not handle the punishment imposed on Joshua, and he knew Joshua couldn't either.

So what did he do?

He made a loophole in the system for the boy. The higher plane would grow to hate him, not Joshua.

It was the only gift that he could think to give, and it had backfired on him.

He doubled over and held his stomach, almost on his knees with the pain and weight of these thoughts.

He couldn't go any deeper, and there was still no color. Staring at the pallet he had dropped, the colors, the black and white, seemed to taunt him, mock him.

In a rage, he reached over and grabbed a pot of paint, throwing it to the ground and watching the color splatter and pool. He grabbed another and did it again, then another, then another until every color was spread out like a beautiful rainbow. He felt weightless and grateful, feeling free as he saw the color. He was released, he had color!

He had color.

The separate colors and pools were spreading and mixing, gravity pulling them together.

What he saw forming in the middle of the color spot on his white floor brought him to his knees in grief. He moaned to keep from screaming , his knees sinking into the paint.

On all fours he swirled his hands around in the messy paint, mixing them quicker so that they formed one color.

He felt dizzy and weak all at once, slamming his eyes shut to steady himself.

When mixed together they made black.

_**Black**_.

His trembling watering eyes saw the huge black hole in his blinding white floor.

Black and white.

He wasn't free, and he would never be. Even when hope did descend, it was never lasting. That much had been proven to him now.

His colors and his rainbow had mixed together and made black, the very shadow of his grief.

_Oh god_, he prayed to a being that he use to serve, _help me... I can't go any deeper and I'm lost_.

Putting his paint drenched black hands to his face, he cried; cried for himself and for everything that he had ever been and done, but most of all he cried for everyone that he had ever loved, and for everyone that he had ever hurt. God forgive his heart and soul. He would never see color again.


End file.
